


To Utter a Loud, Sharp, Piercing Cry

by belleslettres



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Deathly Hallows AU, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Half-Blood Prince, Rape, Rape Recovery, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:43:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9849800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belleslettres/pseuds/belleslettres
Summary: The penalty for disappointing the Dark Lord is severe… as Draco is about to learn. But is there anywhere he can go to escape the punishment the Dark Lord has planned for him? And if hedoesgo… will Harry take him in?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic and Warner Brothers. I am simply taking them out to play for a while. I promise to return them (more or less) in one piece when I am done. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story. 
> 
> Also note: This story begins to part company with cannon at the beginning of the seventh book… and within the first few hundred pages of Deathly Hallows, it abandons it completely.  
> Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome! ~Blessings

Severus watched the magical lash fall against the boy’s bare back… _once, twice, three times…_ and he forced his breathing to remain even, his expression unaltered. 

The closest thing he had to a father was dead. The closest thing he had to a child was being punished for failing to do the deed. Severus’s own heart was in pieces; it had shattered when he cast that killing curse at Dumbledore. 

_Four… five… six…_ The boy didn’t scream. Stubborn child, Severus thought. It couldn’t last. _Seven._

_“Crucio!”_

Screams tore from his throat as he fell. 

“Stand up, Draco.”

He rose shakily to his feet, his face stark white in the dim light of the graveyard. 

Severus wasn’t sure what sort of melodramatic flair had caused the Dark Lord to leave the comforts of the drawing room at Malfoy Manor and traipse them all out to the cemetery on the edge of the estate, but it could hardly bode well for young Malfoy. 

The Dark Lord couldn’t possibly be planning to kill him—could he?

Severus had learned long ago that it was pointless to try to anticipate Voldemort—and there was precisely nothing he could do to spare the boy in any case—but Severus found that his heart ached for the pale, trembling boy who was about to learn, for the first time, what it _really_ meant to disappoint the Dark Lord. 

“When I accepted you into my circle, Draco, did I give you a task?”

“Y-yes, my lord.”

“What was it?”

“T-to k-kill Professor D-dumbledore. M-my lord.” 

The boy didn’t seem to know where to place his eyes and they flicked from the ground before his feet to the Dark Lord and, on occasion, to where his parents were standing—Lucius, passive; Narcissa, her legendary composure failing her, her arm tightly in her husband’s grasp—with the waiting Death Eaters.

“And did you do this thing?”

“My lord, I t-tried, but…” 

“You tried?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Severus continued to breathe. 

“I see,” the Dark Lord purred. “Turn around, Draco.”

 _One… two…_ There was blood now, but still the boy refused to scream; he just pressed his forehead to the stone that marked his grandfather’s final resting place and waited for the lash to fall. _Five… six… seven…_

_“Crucio!”_

Again, the boy fell, screaming. 

“Stand up, Draco.”

He rose, slower this time, and turned to face the Dark Lord. 

“Perhaps you will try harder next time.”

“Y-yes, m-my Lord.”

“Excellent. Turn around.”

_One… two… three…_

The boy just pressed his forehead against the headstone, tears running down his cheeks, blood running down his back and didn’t scream. 

_Six… seven. “Crucio!”_

Abraxas Malfoy had been an arse. He had also been one of the Dark Lord’s earliest supporters, and Severus began to feel a very real fear that Draco was going to die right there at his gravesite.

“Stand up, Draco, and turn around.”

Severus wished he could say he didn’t know how long the punishment continued… but he did know—exactly. Tom Riddle and his seven times _damned_ attachment to the number seven. Forty-nine lashes on the boy’s back—he was barely seventeen, for Christ’s sake!—seven bouts of Cruciatus. It was too much.

The boy was breathing. And making ragged little noises that might have been stifled sobs… or a death rattle. Severus wasn’t sure. 

“Lucius, find a cell for the boy and leave him there. You will have no contact with him after that.” The Dark Lord fixed his gaze on Narcissa, who flinched. “Is that understood?”

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered.

“Now, Severus, I understand that you are fluent in both German and French?”

“I am, my lord.”

“Excellent. I have a small assignment for you….”

* * *

Harry Potter’s breath caught in his throat. The jolt of pleasure he received from seeing Draco Malfoy bleeding into the grass—was that a _headstone_ behind him?—was most definitely _not_ his. 

They weren’t friends. Malfoy had done horrible things. But he had seen enough of Malfoy’s blood… _Draco’s_ blood to last a lifetime; enough of his pain to last an eternity. 

Harry’s scar was hurting enough to roil his stomach, and the nausea that witnessing this scene caused… that was all his. 

He was going to throw up.

If only Malfoy had taken Dumbledore up on his offer right away… Dumbledore would still be alive and Malfoy would be unharmed. If only Harry had _talked_ to Malfoy that day in the bathroom… instead of cursing him. 

If only he had taken Malfoy’s hand, that first day on the train….

* * *

Draco was aware that his lungs weren’t functioning properly; he couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He was aware that his legs wouldn’t support his weight. One of his arms was in his father’s grasp; he wasn’t sure who held the other. He knew he was being dragged from outside to inside, down one set of stairs, then another. 

He was aware of the cold and the dark, then a certain weightlessness… and the stone of the dungeon floor slamming into him.

The force of his landing drove all the remaining air from his lungs. He gasped, unable even to cry out, as the cell door closed with a very final crash. He was in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor… cold, alone, and bleeding. Agony flooded him, body and soul. 

His father had shut the door on him.

… …

The air that filtered back into Draco’s lungs was sharp. He forced himself to breathe anyway. Lifting his head was too much effort. Standing was unthinkable.

Blackness pressed tangibly against his eyes. He shut them. Pain and terror and anguish combined into a gritty sort of exhaustion that held him to the floor.

… …

At some point, Draco noticed that the blackness had begun to fade a little and then a little more until he was actually able to _see_ the confines of his cell. None of the cells in the Malfoy dungeons had windows, but a few of them had ventilation shafts that brought fresh air and a small bit of light to them.

It must be morning. 

He was still lying where he had fallen… _where his father had pushed him…_ in the darkness, but he could see a small mat with what looked like a blanket folded on it pressed against one wall. Next to it stood a small pitcher of what Draco could only hope was water. His mouth felt dry as sand and his throat was raw. 

He lifted his head, only to realize that standing was out of the question; he would have to crawl. He was stiff and everything hurt. His back felt crusty in places and sticky in others.

Was he still bleeding?

He was out of breath and tears were running down his face when he made it to the mat. It could hardly be considered soft, but being off the floor made him feel slightly better. He rested a moment before carefully picking up the pitcher. 

Fresh water.

He took a sip, then another sip. 

He rested some more and took another sip. 

When the light was at its brightest, a small bowl of gruel appeared. It was tepid and tasteless, and Draco, trembling with the effort, ate every last bite. 

Every time he drank, the pitcher refilled itself. Perhaps he hadn’t been left here to die. Draco put his head back down.

… …

The blackness was back. Draco slept.

… …

When he could see to do so, he drank water. He practiced holding his head up. He practiced sitting. There was a bucket on the far side of the cell, which was nice; he didn’t have to relieve himself on the floor.

When the gruel appeared, he ate it, but it was never enough. 

He felt, somehow, that he should be keeping track of the periods of lightness and darkness, or at least the bowls of food… but it seemed daunting. And what was the point? There was no sentence. He was in this cell until someone let him out or he died of the hunger which was now constantly clawing at his stomach.

His back hadn’t stopped hurting, but it had begun to itch. He couldn’t reach to scratch and, indeed, couldn’t have borne his own touch if he could.

… …

The light came again, and the darkness. Draco slept.

* * *

Harry sat on his bed, leaning back against the wall, with the full intention of taking a quiet moment to try and invade Voldemort’s mind. He had been seeing flashes on and off; glimpses of hatred, anger, rage that were not his own… but he hadn’t seen Draco Malfoy. 

It had been over a week since he had seen him bleeding in the graveyard. What had happened to him? Was he even still alive? Harry wanted… _needed…_ to know.

* * *

Draco knew he was starving to death; the bowls of food were inadequate. It was all he could manage to eat the bites of food and drink the sips of water that were keeping him alive. More than once, he had simply considered ignoring them… to speed up the inevitable.

… …

The door to his cell clanged open, Draco saw his father’s booted feet, and made every effort to lift his head. The giddiness he had felt every time he moved had been replaced with a horrible lethargy.

“Get up, Draco. You need to make yourself presentable. The Dark Lord wishes to see you.”

~*~

There was a house-elf bearing a cup of steaming broth in his bathroom.

“Master is needing to sip the broth,” the elf said. “Then Master can take a shower.”

Draco took the broth, the cup was warm in his hands, and inhaled. It smelled wonderful, but his stomach wasn’t entirely sure about it, and he sipped gingerly. Warmth flooded him, and he began to shiver. 

“How… how long… have I been… away?” Draco asked the elf.

It did not look at him. “If Master has finished, Master must be taking a shower. Master must not keep the Dark Lord waiting.”

The elf had a point.

Draco hissed and black spots were speckling his vision before he was done, but he managed to wash off the blood and the filth from being imprisoned for… he still didn’t know for how long. He slipped on grey slacks that had once fit him perfectly and were now threatening to slip off his hips. The touch of his shirt hurt. Ignoring this, he did up the buttons. He was somewhat surprised to find that his wand was lying on the nightstand and used it to dry his hair. 

Draco found the Dark Lord in the drawing room. His parents and several other Death Eaters were in attendance, though his mother’s eyes flicking over him were the only acknowledgement he received. 

Summoning all his courage, Draco crossed the room on shaky legs and knelt before the Dark Lord. 

“You have been a disappointment, Draco,” the Dark Lord hissed.

* * *

There he was, Harry thought. He was alive and whole. 

The vision faded quickly, but not before a sick jolt of anticipation left Harry with very little hope that he would stay that way.

* * *

The Dark Lord had decreed that Macnair was to teach Draco what it _really_ meant to be a Death Eater. 

Draco expected lessons in torture and murder and other unbearable things… instead Macnair led him up to the guest wing and to the room he had claimed for his own.

Once the room had been lovely, now it was messy, dirty even, the bed unmade. 

The look in McNair’s eyes as he circled him, like Draco was prey, sent ice twisting through his belly.

“Muggles are one thing,” Macnair said softly, “but to have a fine, Pureblood at my disposal… Well, now, aren’t I the lucky one that the Dark Lord is pleased with me and displeased with you?” 

The Death Eater’s hand was disarmingly gentle as it passed over his collarbone, up his neck, and along his jaw. Suddenly, and without warning, Draco found a pair of fingers thrust roughly into his mouth.

The fingers tasted disgustingly—and enticingly—of pickled herring and Draco was appalled to find that they reminded him of how very hungry he was.

The fingers probed deeper, causing Draco to gag a little, and all hunger disappeared. 

The Death Eater chuckled at that. “I’m doing you a favor,” Macnair said, his breath hot and stagnant on Draco’s cheek. “I’d prefer to take you dry… but seeing as how this is your first time…” He shoved the fingers back into Draco’s mouth and Draco fought the urge to gag… fought the urge to cry….

… …

Draco remembered nakedness. He remembered pain and then more pain. He remembered gritting his teeth and refusing to scream. He remembered the smell of filthy sheets.

He remembered being forced back into his robes and being dragged to the dining room to eat, _like a civilized wizard,_ Macnair had said.

… …

Draco sat at the table in agony. Pain radiated from every part of him, and his cheeks burned, knowing that everyone knew what had happened. And what _would_ happen again. Macnair had told him to be in his rooms by seven the next morning.

Draco managed to eat the soup, and even a little of the fish, but, hungry as he was, the heavier courses were beyond him and he merely pushed the food around on his plate.

Not once, during the whole endless dinner, did his mother even glance in his direction.

* * *

“What are we going to do, mate?” Ron asked. “Kreacher said he gave the locket to Narcissa Malfoy.”

Ron spoke quietly. Harry’s exclamation of horror at that statement had overwrought the elf to such a degree that he had nearly bashed his head into unconsciousness before Harry managed to stop him. Harry had forbidden the elf to punish himself over it, though the way house-elves seemed to operate, Ron thought it was completely possible that Kreacher might well take it upon himself to punish himself for the original transgression, and then punish himself for punishing himself against orders. 

If he did, there was a good chance Hermione would never speak to any of them—Ron, Harry, or Kreacher—ever again.

“I have no idea,” Harry whispered back. “But at least we have some idea where _one_ of the bloody things is.” 

“Yeah. That’s something,” Ron said, feeling a bit like he was lying. “’Course, walking into Malfoy Manor… that’d be just as bad as going to knock on the door of You-Know-Who’s hideout.”

“That _is_ his hideout.”

“What?”

“He’s there. At Malfoy Manor.”

“Bloody hell…” Ron’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

Harry looked down guiltily. 

“You’ve been looking into his mind again, haven’t you?” Luckily they were still whispering; Ron didn’t think messing about in You-Know-Who’s head was exactly a brilliant idea, but Hermione was rabidly opposed to it.

“A little. I just wanted to know if he was okay…,” Harry said, his voice small.

“Who? You-Know… Oh.” Ron stifled an uncomfortable sigh. “Malfoy?”

“Yeah.”

Harry and Malfoy had been antagonizing each other since the day Ron had met them both on the train to Hogwarts. And yet… Harry had cried real tears at the idea he had nearly killed him that day in the bathroom… and again when he told him how Malfoy had lowered his wand that night on the Astronomy Tower. 

Ron knew they weren’t friends… but he would swear they weren’t enemies either. 

Hermione had told him she overheard Madam Promfrey tell Professor Snape that the _Sectumsempra_ curse had missed every single one of Malfoy’s vital organs _and_ all his major arteries. Hermione thought it was a miracle; Ron didn’t think it sounded like a miracle—he thought it sounded like magic. 

“I saw him…,” Harry said softly. “It was a graveyard. He’d been beaten… whipped… there was blood. And then nothing. For _so_ long. I thought… I was afraid that he was dead. And then I saw him… yesterday. He looked so _scared_ ….”

“Harry…” 

“They’re _hurting_ him!”

“I know.”

“Because he didn’t… wouldn’t… _couldn’t…_ kill Professor Dumbledore. They _forced_ him to take the Dark Mark. He didn’t want it.”

“I know, mate.” Ron swallowed. “But you can’t just go rushing into Malfoy Manor and rescue him either.”

“I know,” Harry almost wailed, proving that that was exactly what he wanted to do.

Ron was trying—he really was—but he couldn’t quite cope with the idea of Malfoy not being… _Malfoy_.

He _was_ a Death Eater, wasn’t he? 

But the idea of him being tortured… The anguish in Harry’s eyes told him this was torture, true and sadistic, and _nothing_ like the schoolboy hexes they had all been tossing at each other for almost half their lives.

Ron had been raised on the idea that there was no such thing as a reformed Death Eater, as a noble Slytherin…. But Ron had also heard Kreacher’s tale… how Regulus Black had drunk that potion and died a truly horrific death… alone in a cave… on the _hope_ that it would enable someone, someday, to defeat Voldemort.

Ron understood that. He’d understood it since his very first year at Hogwarts. And it seemed that Regulus, Death Eater and Slytherin, had understood it too...

* * *

Draco could feel himself being split in two. He knew there was blood running down his legs, but still he didn’t scream. 

“You are a stubborn little brat, aren’t you?” Macnair said, his words and his movements ruthless. 

Draco didn’t respond. He just pressed his face further into the bed and held on. He tried to remember to breathe.

How long had it been since the Dark Lord had given him to Macnair? 

Draco didn’t know; he didn’t know how to count the days anymore. 

Sleep was easy, it was staying awake that was difficult now. Hunger was his constant companion, but he could rarely bring himself to present himself in the dining room. 

He did what he was told. If he didn’t, something painful happened to him; if he did, something painful happened to him anyway. 

With a final, vicious thrust, Macnair grunted out his release. “I used to dream of making you scream and beg,” he said, the words rasping against Draco’s neck, “But this… this might be even better.”

Suddenly there was emptiness behind him, and Draco could hear the Death Eater straightening his robes. 

“Still, a little screaming would be nice. Shall we try again before dinner?”

Without Macnair’s bruising fingers, Draco feared he would fall. He renewed his grip on the bed. 

“Be back in this room by seven, Draco.” 

The door clicked shut and Draco counted to three before allowing himself to slide to the floor.

* * *

Severus found Draco curled up on the window seat of an oddly placed window that gave light to an alcove that was part of a largely unused staircase that led to the upper floors of the Manor. It was too large to be a landing and too small to be an actual room… and it was the perfect place for the Malfoy heir, abused and afraid, to hide.

He would have been quite invisible to anyone who wasn’t looking for him.

Severus, however, was.

“Draco,” he said, and watched the boy turn deeply shadowed eyes to meet his. “My poor boy. I am so sorry.”

“You’re back,” Draco whispered.

Without quite meaning to, Severus found himself reaching for the boy. He was trembling, and he leaned into Severus’s touch in a way that alarmed the older man deeply. Last year Draco had been a fox in a trap, snapping at the hands that tried to help him. Now he was passive.

“I have already spoken with the Dark Lord. I asked that you might return to Hogwarts with me immediately… Draco, forgive me, but the Dark Lord seems to believe I would be putting you to the same sort of use Macnair has been….” 

The spark of hope that had momentarily lit the boy’s eyes disappeared and everything about him sort of crumbled. “Thank you, sir. I’m sure your… attentions… would be preferable.”

“Draco! You can’t possibly think that I would _ever…_ You are my godson! You are the closest thing I will ever have to a child of my own! How could you possibly think…?”

Severus stopped dead, suddenly seeing, not the child, but the man he had become. For one, horrifying moment Severus imagined fine strong limbs spread out before him, steel grey eyes looking up at him with lust.

The boy was, indeed, looking up at him… not with lust, but with absolute trust, and Severus gratefully allowed the world to right itself. 

“Draco, I would never—on my life—force you or coerce you or take from you a single thing that you did not want to give. I would never do _anything_ to hurt you.”

The boy relaxed again, and Severus was glad he had not followed his last—quite inappropriate—train of thought.

“So, can I come with you?”

Severus frowned. “I’m afraid not. In his infinite wisdom, the Dark Lord feels that you are benefitting immensely from your current situation. To be blunt, he told me that as soon as term starts I can fuck you ten times a day if I like, but until then, your arse belongs to Macnair.” 

Severus shouldn’t have said it. And he honestly hadn’t thought Draco could go any paler; every last drop of color slipped from his face. 

“He’ll kill me. Before term starts he’ll kill me,” Draco whispered. “He wants me again before dinner… Severus, it hurts _so_ much….”

“I know… I know….” Severus ran his hand gently over the boy’s brow, smoothing back his hair. “You don’t have to stay here, Draco. It won’t be easy, but there _is_ somewhere you can go.”


	2. Chapter 2

Harry was sitting in the library at Grimmauld Place flipping through Hermione’s copy of _Beedle the Bard_. He wasn’t looking for clues, or doing anything constructive really, but rather searching for memories, however slight, of his mother reading these stories to him. He had gathered that she was almost as much of a bookworm as Hermione; surely she would have read to him, even if he had been too small to understand. 

Ron had coaxed Hermione into playing a game of chess, and the two were ignoring him almost completely. Harry didn’t mind. He had absolutely _no_ idea what to do next and… he couldn’t stop himself from worrying about Malfoy. He hadn’t seen him at all in days and days… and Hermione was violently opposed to Harry taking peeks into Voldemort’s mind. 

Would she have been even more opposed, or less, Harry wondered, if she had known _who_ he was looking for… and why?

A loud crack snapped him out of his musings. The front door burst open with a crash and an unmistakable cry of pain.

With Ron and Hermione right behind him, he reached the hall just in time to see the spectral Albus Dumbledore sweep down on what appeared to be a pile of rags that had landed in the front hall.

“I didn’t kill you!” the rags gasped. 

Rather than disappearing, the form of Dumbledore momentarily became more solid. “I know, my dear boy. I know,” it said, before fading away like smoke. 

Ignoring Ron’s warning, Harry took a cautious step closer… and the rags shifted a little, revealing themselves to be a wrinkled and rather filthy traveling cloak covering a skeletal figure… with platinum blond hair and the grey eyes Harry had been searching for. 

“Malfoy!”

“Please! Please, don’t hurt me!” Malfoy’s wand clattered onto the flagstones and he pushed it away. Deftly, Ron pocketed it. 

Part of Harry wanted to prepare for the attack that he knew was imminent; if Malfoy was here, that meant other Death Eaters would be arriving at any moment… but part of him could not tear his eyes away from the boy on the floor.

He looked broken… broken in a way that Harry had never seen before, not even on that horrible day in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

Without really meaning to, Harry knelt down and put a gentle hand on Malfoy’s shoulder. “Are you all right?” he asked. 

"No," came the whispered reply. “Not at all."

* * *

Draco put his head down on the flags. It was just too much trouble to hold it up at the moment. He wasted a few moments trying to find a way to lie that wasn’t pressing on one bruise or another… before giving it up as a bad job and just let the pressure build. 

The hand on his shoulder felt nice, though, and Draco concentrated on that.

“How did you get here?” another voice asked. Weasley’s; it had to be, though Draco couldn’t bring himself to look. That meant Granger was here somewhere, too. 

“Snape told me,” Draco said, closing his eyes.

“He can’t have,” Weasley said. “Moody put a tongue-tying curse on him. He can’t have told anyone.”

“He told me,” Draco said.

“If the spell isn’t active…,” Granger said, “Why isn’t this place swarming with Death Eaters?”

“An excellent question, Granger,” Draco said. He wanted to mock her, truly he did. But he was just too tired. 

“Do you know the answer, though, Malfoy?” Potter asked. Draco still thought the hand on his shoulder felt nice, warm and comforting.

“If they find me, they’ll kill me,” Draco whispered. “Snape sent me to you to keep me safe. Please… let me stay.”

Draco felt the hand on his shoulder tense at the mention of Snape, before squeezing. Carefully. “You’re safe here. I swear it.”

Draco wanted to just keep lying on the stone floor, maybe allow a few of the threatening tears to leak out, to keep Potter’s hand on his shoulder… but he knew he had to move. Without giving voice to any of the painful sounds that wanted so badly to escape him, he forced himself to sit up.

“Malfoy, how badly hurt _are_ you?” Potter asked.

“I… I landed wrong when I got here… and… it’s been a really rough… Potter, what day is this?” 

“Erm… Tuesday, I think?”

“No, I mean… I don’t know the date,” Draco said softly. 

Granger’s voice was gentle when she answered. “It’s the fifth of August, Malfoy.”

Draco felt dizzy. 

_More than a month._

He could _not_ manage to respond, and for a moment no one said anything and a heavy, uncomfortable silence filled the hall.

It was broken by the appearance of a house-elf who shouted, “Master Draco!” and rushed to prostrate itself at his feet. “Kreacher is honored to serve a member of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black!”

“Erm… thank you, Kreacher. Oh,” Draco said, remembering. “Severus said to give this to you.” He pulled an ugly golden locket out of his pocket.

“Malfoy…,” Harry said reaching for it. “Where…?”

“Master Regulus’s locket!” 

“Harry, don’t touch it! It’s probably cursed or something,” Weasley yelled.

Potter rolled his eyes. “You think?” he said, picking it up anyway.

For a moment he just looked at the locket, tracing the ugly “S” with his fingers. He didn’t try to open it.

“Well… it is what we think it is?” Weasley asked.

“Yeah,” Potter said. “Malfoy, do you know what this is?”

“No. But it feels… I don’t know. Evil. All I know is that Kreacher brought it to my mother. Regulus had asked Kreacher to destroy it, but he couldn’t. He thought, maybe, she could, but… she couldn’t either.”

“Why would she have even tried?” Weasley wanted to know.

“My mother loved Regulus Black.” 

Potter, Weasley, and Granger exchanged unreadable glances.

“And Master Regulus loved Miss Cissy! He said she was like a ray of sunshine when his life was at its darkest!”

All eyes landed back on Kreacher. Draco swallowed hard and continued his story. 

“They were engaged when…he decided he didn’t want to be a Death Eater anymore. And then the Dark Lord killed him. No one survives for long after they leave the Dark Lord’s service.” Draco felt his voice hitch. “It’s probably only a matter of days, really, before he finds me and kills me….”

“We could have grown up friends, maybe… practically cousins…,” Potter said, somehow landing on the most irrelevant thing Draco had just said. 

“Malfoy, _He_ didn’t kill Regulus,” Granger said kindly. “Regulus found out that You-Know-Who had done something terrible… really, really horrible, actually, and he died trying to set it right again.” 

Draco found that this actually made him feel better.

Weasley cleared his throat. “You’re safe here, yeah? You-Know-Who’s been trying to kill Harry since he was a baby… and he hasn’t managed yet. I reckon wherever Harry is is the safest place to be, really.” 

Draco felt his lips twitch into what might have been a brief smile. “That _almost_ makes sense.”

“What is Master Draco needing?” Kreacher asked. “Kreacher will make a dinner befitting…”

Draco was still feeling dizzy, and achingly hungry, and was fairly certain that the fact that his hand had at some point become clasped in Potter’s was the only thing keeping him upright. But…

“Could… I take a bath?” he asked. “Please?”

~*~

The bathroom was huge, with cracked and grubby tiles. A clawfoot tub was against one wall, slowly filling with water.

“Are you going to stay?” Draco asked.

“I promised Ron I wouldn’t let you out of my sight.”

Draco frowned. “What am I going to do? He has my wand.”

“I know. But I promised. And, actually, Malfoy, you look like you could just fall over at any second. I can’t just let you drown in the tub.”

“You make a fair point,” Draco said, turning to lean on the sink. Potter actually made an _excellent_ point. 

He looked at himself in the mirror, completely unimpressed with the reflection. He had always thought he had had higher cheekbones and more chin than were strictly necessary… but had also always thought that the pointiness suited him. Now he just looked gaunt. And exhausted. 

Standing was an effort.

The tub was filling too slowly. All he wanted was to get _into_ it. To get clean. 

A small pop signaled the return of the house-elf. He had a pile of fluffy towels under one arm and a huge bowl of broth in the other.

“Master Draco is needing to eat something,” Kreacher said. “Master must sip this while his bath fills.”

Draco watched his face go from greyish to green. “No!” he found himself shouting, “I can’t eat that! _Please!_ Get it out of here!”

“Kreacher, go!” Potter yelled and both the elf and the bowl of broth disappeared. 

Draco could see green eyes, looking wide and almost… frightened… sweeping over him. “Malfoy… are you okay?” 

“Yeah….” He could still _smell_ the broth, a warm smell that _should_ have been comforting, but was actually the complete opposite, twisting up his nose, into his brain. 

“I really think you need to eat _something….”_

Draco swallowed and swallowed, willing himself not to throw up. “I know… Just not that, okay?”

“But something,” Potter said firmly. “What about… ice cream? Chocolate ice cream?”

Draco thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said, “I think I could eat that.”

* * *

Kreacher returned, fluffy towels still in hand, with two bowls of chocolate ice cream. The ice cream was covered with fresh raspberries, homemade whipped cream, and drizzled in more chocolate. 

Harry thanked the elf and for a while he and Malfoy ate in companionable silence. Harry, leaning against the doorframe, Malfoy, curled around himself on the chest sitting under the window. He ate slowly, but he finished the ice cream.

“Thank you, Potter.”

“Anytime.” Harry glanced at the tub. “I think it’s about ready.” 

“I suppose.” Malfoy looked as though he might want to ask Harry to leave again, but in the end he just turned back to the mirror and began to undo the buttons of his shirt. 

Harry had been prepared for the ribs, for the utter emaciation he knew he would see as soon as Malfoy removed his clothing; he gasped out loud when he saw the other boy’s back.

Malfoy’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t respond. 

Harry took a few steps forward until he was close enough to place his hand on Malfoy’s shoulder. He didn’t touch him, though. “Those are over a month old,” he said unable to keep the horror out of his voice. “They should be healed by now.”

“Maybe. It might have something to do with the lash… or that no one was allowed to help me tend them…” Malfoy’s voice fell away. 

Suddenly, his eyes snapped up, meeting Harry’s in the mirror. “How do you know… when…?”

“I…” Harry hesitated. “I can sometimes see into _His_ mind. I can sometimes see what _He_ sees.”

“That must be…” Malfoy stopped, as though words failed him. “What… what did you see… when you saw me?”

“You were in the graveyard… lying in the grass. Bleeding. That was when these happened, right?”

Malfoy nodded. “I didn’t scream,” he said, as though this was important. “When he whipped me, I didn’t scream.”

Harry gave him a small smile of understanding. “ _Accio,_ dittany.” 

A brown bottle flew into Harry’s hand. He looked up, searching grey eyes for permission, and Malfoy, looking so desperately fragile, nodded. 

Some of the marks were more than half healed, but many were still raw. Harry poured a few drops of the oily brown liquid onto his fingertips. There were too many stripes to count, crossing over one another, colored with bruises fading in tones of green and mottled yellow; a web of misery inflicted as punishment for failing to do evil. 

With unerring gentleness, Harry traced each hurt, and one by one, they faded away at his touch.

Malfoy let out a soft sigh. “I hadn’t realized how much they still hurt,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Harry whispered.

* * *

Draco turned around. 

Their eyes met, and Draco had to remember how to breathe.

He didn’t know how to feel. 

Severus had been so sure that Potter would take him in, but Draco hadn’t been. On the one hand, he hadn’t _really_ expected Potter to throw him out onto the street… but he had, honestly, expected to be tortured for information. He had expected rage, pain, humiliation… and certainly incarceration. Still, he had come because _anything_ Potter did would have been better than what he was leaving behind.

But Potter—and Granger and Weasley—had been kind… compassionate, even.

And the feel of those fingers on his back, erasing pain he didn’t even know he still carried…. Potter blinked and part of Draco wanted to just lean forward and kiss him. If those fingers could bring relief to those cuts on his back… what else could they heal?

Still, the last time Draco had come face-to-face with him, Potter had literally sliced him open. 

Potter wasn’t looking into his eyes, anymore. He was looking at his chest. “I did this,” he said, reaching for the scars that crisscrossed his chest… where the curse had missed his heart by millimeters. 

Draco grabbed his hand. “Don’t. Please.”

Draco didn’t know how to say that the scars meant something to him. He didn’t even know exactly _what_ they meant… only that they meant _something._

“I am _so_ sorry. I should _never_ have…”

“I was about to _Crucio_ you!”

“Malfoy, when Vol—” 

“Don’t say his name!”

“Okay! When You-Know-Who tried to kill me, I responded with a fucking _Expelliarmus!_ But you? You I try to disembowel!” 

Potter’s obvious anguish disconcerted Draco. “Well,” he said a little shakily, “we’ve always had a special kind of relationship, haven’t we?”

Potter let out an odd little snort and Draco thought of all the times, especially in the last year, when he had felt Potter’s eyes on him. He thought of all the times he was almost _begging_ Potter…

_pleasenotice-pleasenotice-pleasenotice…pleasedo_ some _thing… pleasehelpme…_

…and he thought of his life’s blood seeping onto the floor, feeling himself growing cold… and feeling that Harry Potter had, actually, saved his life. 

“I was so _mad_ at Snape,” he said softly, “For stopping the bleeding… for saving me. I thought you’d actually killed me. And I was so grateful.” 

Potter opened his mouth for a moment, then closed it. Suddenly Potter’s bright green eyes met his own, almost as if asking a question.

If there was an answer, Draco didn’t know what it was.

Slowly Potter brought his head, his lips, to Draco’s neck and gently kissed the topmost point of the scar. He pulled back slightly, his eyes flicking to Draco’s, and when Draco didn’t respond with anger or horror or anything really, Potter brought his lips back to his neck, just a little lower and kissed again. Potter’s lips slid down the scar… down Draco’s neck, across his chest, over his stomach… inch by inch, Potter used his lips and tongue to kiss… caress… almost _worship_ the horrible scar in all its vicious zig-zagginess. 

Draco moaned.

He had forgotten.

He had forgotten how _good_ touching could feel. 

Potter dropped to his knees, still kissing, until the scar disappeared below the waistband of Draco’s trousers. Fingers on the buttons, he looked up, questioning again.

“God, Potter, _yes_ ,” Draco almost sobbed. 

With nimble fingers, Potter undid the buttons, pushed both the trousers and the pants to the floor, and continued his trail of kisses.

The scar ended at Draco’s hipbone and Potter stopped, kneeling there for a moment or two, his hands circling Draco’s legs, looking completely unsure. 

“Potter…?” Draco was unsure, too. He’d never gone this far. Except for…

That thought slammed into Draco, causing his breath to come in sharply, but he pushed it away. He refused to think of that Death Eater now… because whatever _that_ had been, it had nothing to do with _this_. And suddenly Draco was sure that having Potter’s mouth on him was either going to be the best, or the worst, thing that could possibly happen.

Probably both. 

But Potter was pulling back a little, a red smear on his fingers. “Malfoy, you’re… you’re bleeding.”

It was like being hit with a bucket of very cold water. 

“I’m not surprised,” Draco answered. “I had rather a rough arrival here, you recall.” He had aimed for the snarky tone that he had once commanded so easily… and he didn’t think he had done too terrible of a job, either, given that Potter was kneeling before him with Draco’s own blood on his fingertips.

“But… the whip marks… they were raw, not bloody and… I thought I got them all….”

“You did.”

“But then… what…?” A look of horror crossed his face. “Draco…?”

The look of revulsion mixed with a crushing sympathy, combined with the sound of his name on the lips of _Harry Potter_ was very nearly Draco’s undoing. 

Draco felt his hands begin to shake. He _couldn’t_ fall apart—not now. Maybe not ever, but certainly not now. 

Harry inhaled deeply and said, in a voice that was very nearly matter-of-fact, “A few drops of dittany in the bath, do you think?”

“Yes. I think that would be good.”

“Draco…”

“Don’t, Harry. Don’t. _Please._ It isn’t any worse than any of the others.” Draco wasn’t even sure that this wasn’t true.

Harry turned to add the dittany to the bath. Then he tested the temperature of the water, first with his wand, then with his hand.

“I think it’s all right, what do you think?”

Draco thought it was too hot. He also thought that he would get into that water even if it were boiling. If there was anything in the world that would make him feel clean again, it _had_ to be in that tub.

He needed the support of Harry’s hand to get in, though, and was grateful to find it, strong and gentle, right where he needed it to be.

“Do you want me to help you wash your hair?” Harry asked.

Draco could only nod. And if Harry noticed a few hot tears escape Draco’s eyes and fall into the tub, he politely pretended that they were nothing more than a few drops of the water he was using to rinse the suds from Draco’s hair.

And Draco was grateful.


	3. Chapter 3

Draco looked at the large, round, open-faced… pie… casserole… thing… on the table. It appeared to have some sort of red sauce spread over it and was covered in melted cheese and what looked like mushrooms and bits of meat.

“What… is that?” he asked. He hoped he didn’t sound rude. 

Granger blushed a little. “It’s called a pizza. I’m afraid it’s a Muggle thing.”

Draco took a deep breath. Whatever else it was, it smelled delicious. The hunger that normally clawed at his belly, insisting on food, but then rejecting nearly everything was as eager to eat this… pizza… as he was. 

His pause must have been a little too long because Hermione’s face got a bit redder. “Please don’t be offended, Malfoy! It’s just that Harry said that the broth really bothered you and… well… I thought I’d make a pizza since you won’t have… had it before.”

“It smells delicious. And I’m not offended… That was really thoughtful. Thank you.”

She smiled. It was a pretty smile, Draco decided.

“I suppose I have you to thank for these as well?” he said, indicating the trousers and the Slytherin sweater he was wearing. The sweater was warm and familiar and made him feel… safe somehow. 

“I asked Kreacher to sort out of some of Regulus’s old things for you. I thought they might be more comfortable for you than….”

“Than wearing my jeans?” Weasley said, striding into the room, followed closely by Potter. _Harry._ Weasley always seemed to take up more room than strictly necessary. “I definitely don’t want him in my jeans. Don’know if Harry feels quite the same way, though.”

Draco felt himself blush and glanced quickly at Potter. _Harry._ By rights he should have been choking on the sip of butterbeer he had just taken. 

Instead his smile lit the room. 

“Erm… Malfoy,” Granger said, her face nearly as red as Weasley’s hair. “Do you want some salad with your pizza?”

~*~

The pizza was delicious, and Granger didn’t seem offended when Draco couldn’t quite finish his piece.

“It’ll be easy to warm back up, Malfoy, if you get hungry later.” she said. “It’s pretty good cold, too.”

He nodded and was about to take a sip of water when white-hot pain tore through his forearm. 

Draco dropped the glass, which shattered on the floor, as black spots swam before his eyes. He clutched the Dark Mark, biting back screams. 

Harry caught him before he fell to the floor. 

“He. Knows. I. Left.” Draco said, rather unnecessarily, struggling to breathe, struggling to not scream.

“Does he know where you are?” Harry asked urgently. 

Draco could only shake his head no as he clung to Harry.

Above him, a soft, feminine voice uttered a breathy, “ _shit-shit-shit_ ” before beginning to give commands like a drill sergeant. 

“Ron! Come here—watch the glass, I’m not sure I got it all. I need you to hold his arm _flat_ and _still_. Harry, just keep holding him. Draco—” Draco became aware of a hand gripping is un-Marked wrist, and how her voice became utterly soothing and utterly confidant “—I need you to move this hand, that’s it, I’m going to take care of that, but you need to keep still….” 

The words Granger used were slippery with extraneous vowels and he couldn’t quite follow them. They weren’t so much a _spell_ as a poem or a song; Draco thought he might be catching a refrain, even though he didn’t understand any of the words. The fire in his Mark began to dull and by the time Granger had finished… whatever _that_ was… the pain had reduced to an itchy ache. 

She took a few deep breaths, leaning half on Weasley, half against the table. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you.” Draco breathed. “What… how did you do that?”

“It’s a dampening spell. It should dull most of the sensations from the Mark. It will wear off, unfortunately… and I’m afraid I can only use it when the connection is open on _his_ end. I found it this afternoon… I thought we might need it.”

“Are you telling me that you learned _that_ spell, sorted clothes for me, _and_ made dinner… in the space of one afternoon? You’re a marvel… Hermione.”

She smiled. “I… Thank you… Draco.”

Harry was still holding him tightly when Draco felt a tremor move through Harry. “Are you okay?” he asked.

“Harry, you’re supposed to be _blocking_ him. Don’t look!” Hermione said, the command in her voice replaced by shrillness. 

“I can’t always _help_ it, Hermione!” Harry cried, pressing his forehead down on Draco’s head and clutching him tighter.

“What do you see?” Draco asked, his voice panicked. “Harry… my mother…”

“She’s. Fine,” he gasped. “He’s torturing Macnair…”

“Good,” Draco replied, and pressed his face back against Harry’s chest, though he was no longer sure who was holding whom.

* * *

Severus was very much enjoying watching the Death Eater writhe before the Dark Lord. 

Draco was gone; that much was inescapably clear. The Dark Lord had ruthlessly called Draco to him and the call had gone unanswered. Severus could only hope that Hermione had found the spell needed to dampen the pain. Kreacher was to leave it in a fairly obvious location and Hermione was a smart witch; she would know what would happen to Draco should he ignore the Dark Lord’s summons. It was a supremely difficult spell… but he had complete faith in her. 

Severus had assured the Dark Lord that he did not know the whereabouts of young Malfoy. 

Narcissa had turned guileless blue eyes up for the Dark Lord’s probing and he received nothing for his efforts. 

She must have known where he would send Draco; she had brought him the locket, after all. But Severus hadn’t told her… and Narcissa Black Malfoy was an absolute _goddess_ when it came to Occlumency. Where Severus had shields and false memories to keep an intruder at bay, Narcissa’s memories, real or unreal, floated to the surface like silk in a breeze, one liquid memory after another, so that it was impossible to hold onto any specific memory long enough to scrutinize it. 

Draco was safe… and in the one place the Dark Lord couldn’t reach him. And the Dark Lord was blaming Macnair for Draco’s disappearance…. 

It wasn’t even particularly unjust. Macnair was the worst sort of man… vile and sadistic. And it made Severus ill to think that Draco had been given to him, that he had been allowed to rape the poor boy over and over….  


" _Crucio!_ " 

Macnair twisted on the floor, his screams echoing through the hall. Severus dearly wished that _he_ was the one casting curses… how he would love to be the one making that horrible man suffer.

* * *

Hermione had gone upstairs to the room they now shared, but Ron followed Harry and Malfoy into the bedroom that had once been his and Harry’s. Apparently it was now _Malfoy’s_ and Harry’s. 

With a twinge of guilt, Ron muttered, _“Incarcerous,”_ and Malfoy’s wrists were bound behind his back. Ron recoiled slightly at the look of betrayal in Malfoy’s eyes… all the more so because he didn’t complain or even comment.

“Ron!” Harry snapped. “Draco is _not_ going to murder me in my sleep!”

The uncomfortable thing was that Ron believed him. He was fairly certain that Malfoy was in as much danger from He-Who-Must-Be-Named as they were; he _did_ believe that he had been tortured… starved. Malfoy had always been thin, but now he was damn near emaciated, all bone and haunted eyes. 

But he couldn’t bring himself to _completely_ trust him. 

He really _might_ be planning to murder them all in their sleep. 

“This isn’t a room big enough for all four of us,” he said, ignoring Harry’s furious look. He directed his gaze to Malfoy instead. “And Hermione’s afraid to sleep in this house alone. It’s nothing personal… it’s just a precaution, yeah?”

He watched Malfoy swallow. “I understand,” he said. 

“Thanks.” Ron reached out and was unnerved at Malfoy’s flinch. He gave the bonds an experimental tug. “They aren’t too tight, are they?”

“No,” Malfoy whispered. “They’re okay.”

“All right. Goodnight, Harry. Malfoy.” 

Ron shut the door behind him and went upstairs.

* * *

Harry waited until he heard the creak on the staircase… then he counted to three. _“Finite,”_ he whispered, and the bonds slipped away. 

Draco was trembling, and Harry caught his arm. “He won’t do that again,” he said, almost harshly. “I won’t let him.”

Harry wasn’t sure if Draco was fighting tears or a panic attack. 

“They never tied me up.” Draco sounded utterly perplexed, though Harry wasn’t sure if it was because _they_ hadn’t, or because Ron _had._

Or because Harry had let him. 

“I didn’t know Ron was going to do that,” he said. “I shouldn’t have let him.”

“They left me in the dungeons… for weeks, I think,” Draco said, his voice ragged.

He was rubbing his wrists… Ron had used soft ropes and they hadn’t been on for more than moments. His wrists couldn’t be hurting him. Harry stopped the motions with gentle hands.

“But they never tied me up. After… with… with _him…_ I could have left. I had my wand. As long as I came to _his_ room when I was supposed to… they left me alone. I hid for hours at a time and no one cared! Harry, I could have _left!”_

Harry’s thumbs made soft circles on Draco’s hand, carefully tracing the knuckles. “Where would you have gone?”

“I don’t know! Somewhere! Anywhere!” 

“He would have found you,” Harry said with certainty, not letting go of Draco’s hands. “He would have brought you back…”

Draco made a broken sound. 

“Shhh… You’re safe _now_.” Harry pulled gently and brought Draco’s hands to his lips. He kissed the inside of Draco’s wrist, then the other wrist. “He can’t find you now. You’re safe here.”

“I know.”

Harry held Draco’s hands against his chest… over his heart and let the other boy rest his forehead against his own. He couldn’t even guess how long they stood like that. 

“I didn’t scream,” Draco said. 

Again, he said it like it was important, and Harry squeezed his hands. Reassuring. 

“I just… wouldn’t. Except when _He_ used the Cruciatus curse on me… then I screamed. I didn’t want to…I tried _not_ to… I just couldn’t stop myself.”

“It just sort of wrings it out of you, doesn’t it? You can’t _not_ scream.…” Harry said, shuddering. 

“I forgot. Father said _He_ used it on you.”

“The night he came back. That was in a graveyard, too.”

“Harry, he _wanted_ me to scream.”

Draco was shaking, almost violently, now and Harry could feel the tears tracking down the other boy’s face.

“Who? You mean Vol-, sorry, You-Know-Who?”

“No. I didn’t scream when _He_ whipped me, but I don’t think _He_ cared really. I just… didn’t. It was the _other_ that wanted me to scream.”

Draco drew a shuddering breath and Harry resumed rubbing his thumbs across his hands, circling until the other boy was ready to speak again.

“But I… wouldn’t,” Draco continued. “It was like the ability to _not_ scream was the only thing I had left. I know… that doesn’t make any sense…”

“It makes sense to me,” Harry said, brushing his lips on Draco’s knuckles.

* * *

Sleep had come easily to Draco at the Manor. In the cell there hadn’t been much to do but sleep. And after… sleep had been easier than being awake. Now it was eluding him. 

He listened to Harry’s breathing, smooth and rhythmic, and tried to mimic it. The bed was surprisingly comfortable and he _was_ exhausted….

… …

Draco couldn’t stop the screams that tore from his throat. They were harsh and raw and _he couldn’t stop them…._

He wasn’t asleep… he _knew_ he was at Grimmauld Place, knew Harry was sleeping just a few feet away from him…. 

And yet he was trapped in a nightmare… 

He _knew_ the lash wasn’t really falling on his bare back, over and over again…. Still he screamed.

He _knew_ Macnair wasn’t really there, taking him unprepared, taking pleasure from his pain… and yet he screamed anyway. He screamed for him to stop…. Draco could _see_ the dim outline of the bureau, and even the ugly, empty portrait on the wall… and yet Macnair’s hands were on him, he could feel his fetid breath… he wouldn’t stop… and Draco screamed and screamed. 

He screamed for his father to let him out of the cell… hunger ripped at his belly and he screamed. He screamed for his mother to do something… _anything_ just to make all the pain stop. He screamed for her to _look_ at him. 

Draco couldn’t wake up and he couldn’t stop screaming. 

Strong hands gripped him. “It’s okay. It’s okay, I’ve got you! Let it out… I’ve got you.”

Draco grasped the arms attached to those hands and held on, his grip bruising, as every scream of pain… of anger… of betrayal… was ripped from him. Every scream he had refused to utter forced its way out. 

The screams changed to sobs… great wracking sobs, and Draco found himself clinging to those arms like a lifeline. The arms wrapped around him, holding him tight. 

Over and over, the voice of Harry Potter assured him that it was all right. 

Draco cried until his bones felt liquid. He cried until his eyes burned and he could barely breathe. 

He lay there in the darkness, every scream, every sob wrong from him, with his head in Harry’s lap. One of Harry’s hands gently carded Draco’s hair. Draco couldn’t bear to move.

In the darkness, Harry whispered something. Draco’s eyes cooled and his nose, sinuses, everything cleared. He could breathe easily again.

“My mother used that spell…,” Harry said, sounding awed. “I remember… when I was little and I cried, she used that spell… I thought I couldn’t remember her at all… but I do.”

Draco picked up Harry’s hand and kissed it.

* * *

“They’re asleep, Headmaster,” Phineas Nigellus said. “They’re asleep in the same _bed.”_

Severus smiled. “I’d wondered about that,” he said. The boys were together now… just as Dumbledore had hoped.

Narcissa had sent over a few items for Draco; clothes mostly, but also a few tatty paperback books—Tolkien, Shakespeare, _The Outsiders…_. 

_Really, Draco?_ Severus thought, running his fingers gently over the cover. 

He carefully wrapped up the tiny, animated, jewel-encrusted dragon, ignoring the fact that it was snapping at him.

There were a few dark books from the Manor library that suggested to Severus that Narcissa knew _exactly_ what that necklace was. She had also enclosed a note mentioning that the Dark Lord had entrusted Bellatrix with a cup, an heirloom of Helga Hufflepuff; it was in her vault at Gringotts. 

He would have to find a way to get the Sword of Gryffindor to them… but now was not the time for that.

“Phineas, will you please inform Kreacher that I will leave Draco’s things in the front hall within the half-hour,” Severus said, folding the last few items and binding them neatly into a bundle.

* * *

Ron pushed open the door to the bedroom Harry and Malfoy were sharing and felt the silencing spell shatter around him. 

Harry really _could_ be an idiot at times.

He wasn’t surprised to find Malfoy unbound.

He wasn’t even _really_ surprised to find both boys in the same bed, darker arms entwined with ghostly pale ones. The fact that both of them looked as though they hadn’t slept more than half an hour, and that they both had tear drops glistening on closed eyelids, broke his heart. 

Ron shook his head and backed slowly out of the room, replacing the silencing spell as he went.

_~Fin~_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always kudos, comments, and constructive criticism are very welcome and greatly appreciated! ~Blessings
> 
> You can also find me on Tumblr as [ belleslettres-love](https://belleslettres-love.tumblr.com).


End file.
